


Hellooooo, nurse!

by weirdraccoon



Category: Batman - All Media Types, Superman - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - No Powers, Bruce Wayne is Batman, Clark Kent is Human, Clark Kent is Not Superman, M/M, Medical Inaccuracies, Minor Injuries, Poor excuses for injuries
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-20
Updated: 2021-02-26
Packaged: 2021-03-16 16:08:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,998
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29578647
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/weirdraccoon/pseuds/weirdraccoon
Summary: Clark enjoys his job at the Free Clinic.He loves helping people and tending injuries.Saving lives.But this man...Bruce Wayne is going to kill him if he doesn't get killed first.(The one where Clark is a nurse)
Relationships: Clark Kent/Bruce Wayne
Comments: 9
Kudos: 57





	1. That's not my blood

**Author's Note:**

> Imma be honest. Every time I finished a chapter for Flashpoint I took a little break, so it might be a reason for me taking so long between chapters hahaha  
> But! I did it! Here, I present to you, the Nurse!Clark crackish fic I [promised](https://tmblr.co/Z7cORVZfhwTnyi01) (it was born on discord's batsupes community and I was like oh I want to try that).  
> Keep in mind that the only thing I know about medicine is that it takes like ten years to become a professional, so I'll be using my best friend Google for any medical advise.  
> Tell me what you think!  
> Comments feed muses.

Clark whistled cheerfully while he made his way to his favorite patient.

And no, he was not being sarcastic.

What would make you think that?

Bruce Wayne was adventurous and careless. He had more scars than Clark could count and all his bones had broken at least once. He was an adrenaline junkie, and Clark wanted to strangle him every time he read the man had been to a party – fucked some guests or get fucked by them – when Clark knew perfectly well that Bruce had been injured just an hour before.

And he wasn’t exaggerating!

(Okay, maybe he was exaggerating the broken bones but not the parties!)

For example, last night. Clark had just left the manor after patching an ugly knife wound, and he was just getting home when Lois sent him a meme.

It showed Bruce Wayne falling out of a closet, tangled with an older man.

And if twitter was to be trusted, it had happened not five minutes before.

Clark made fifteen minutes tops from Wayne Manor to his apartment.

So, he was now back at the mansion, just to check if Wayne didn’t pull the stitches on his abdomen.

“Good morning, Master Kent,” Alfred greeted at the door. “Master Bruce is still asleep. Can I offer you anything to eat or drink while you wait? Or would prefer to try and wake him up?”

Clark pursed his lips and nodded to the stairs.

“I’ll wake him up,” he told the old man. “I don’t want to wait more than necessary if he hurt himself again,” he rolled his eyes.

Alfred smirked and wished him good luck.

Clark frowned at Alfred’s retreating back. The butler might think he hid it well, but Clark was one of the best at the clinic, that’s why Leslie picked him to treat one of her personal patients after all, and he could see Alfred’s movements were strained. His back was undoubtedly aching again and he didn’t put too much pressure on his left leg, so his knee was also hurting.

Clark made a mental note to ask Leslie for Alfred’s medicine and went upstairs.

The truth was Alfred was old. His time in the army (although Clark was pretty sure it was more like the Queen’s secret service) was catching up to him, and fast. Just a month ago, when Clark first came to the manor, Alfred seemed immortal, but now…

From her stories, Alfred was older than Leslie, and Leslie was a very old woman. She was picking her heirs, basically, dividing her patients to her favorite nurses and training a young practician to take her place as head of the free clinic.

Tim Drake was good if a little young for Clark’s tastes. However, the kid proved to know what he was doing when he finished school in record time. And his parents helped the clinic by donating thousands of dollars each year.

Of course, Bruce Wayne was the top benefactor and the one convincing the Drakes and other rich families to contribute. Clark wondered if that was the reason Leslie cared for him so much.

Bruce’s room was dark, but as it was, Clark had been up there several times (not like Bruce wanted him, though) so he knew where everything was.

He made his way to the windows to open the heavy curtains and reveled on the groan that came from the bed. If he had to get up earlier to check on his patient because said patient couldn’t skip a party, the patient should get up too. Clark wouldn’t be late to the clinic just because Bruce wanted to party all night and sleep all day. Money or not.

Besides, he had to keep Wayne alive if he wanted to keep the clinic’s foundation, right?

“Good morning, Mr. Wayne,” he grinned happily and pulled on Bruce’s covers before Bruce could protest. “I’ll just check real quick last night’s job,” he chatted. “Wouldn’t want you bleeding to death because you fell out of the closet.”

“Ugh, go away,” Bruce grumbled and glared at him, or tried to.

He was still too asleep to glare properly. He just looked adorable.

“In a second,” Clark promised. “Lots to do at the clinic.”

Bruce sighed, resigned, and rubbed his eyes while Clark prodded him.

The stitches were fine, and the wound was healing nicely. It was clean at the very least. Clark had feared what would be covering the bandages. Like… blood… or semen.

But it was all right and he felt relieved. So, he applied more antibacterial ointment and redressed the wound. With some luck, Bruce would go back to sleep when he left and he’d leave the bandages alone. He looked sleepy enough to fall asleep, even with the sunlight bathing him.

Clark glanced at his patient’s face and bit his lip.

Working at the clinic he learned not to ask questions. Gotham was dangerous, and the Narrows was like the preferred place for fights and shootings and murders… Even Batman seemed to favor those rooftops while the rest of the city slept.

But Bruce Wayne was such a mystery.

He claimed all his injuries were related to sports or kinky sex, and Clark will forever try to forget that particular conversation. However, as was said before, Clark was good at his job, and he knew how to investigate, so he could differentiate knife-play scrapes from an actual knife stab wound.

“So, Bruce,” he began softly. “How did you say you got this?”

“Thalia fell on me,” Bruce groaned sleepily, as if the faster he answered, the faster the nurse would leave and he’d go back to sleep peacefully. “We were playing around with a knife. Felt good,” he yawned. “So good,” he practically moaned.

Clark blushed and took his hands off the billionaire.

God.

This man couldn’t be real.

“All right, Mr. Wayne,” Clark sighed annoyed and a little flustered. “I’ll leave you to rest now.”

He walked back to the curtains and closed them halfway. That way the bed was in the shadow while the room was visible. He saw Bruce’s last night’s clothes thrown haphazardly around the floor. Remembering Alfred’s discomfort with his muscles, he began to pick them up to put on a sofa near the fireplace.

“And remember not to strain yourself,” Clark was saying while he picked some pants. “If you feel like scratching the stitches, put some cream around it but do not touch it,” he picked up a jacket. “If for any reason- there’s blood.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Bruce mumbled into the pillow. “I’ll call you right away.”

“No, Bruce,” Clark’s voice made Bruce raise on his hands and look at the other man.

The nurse had his dress shirt from last night in his hands.

And it had a smear of blood in the front.

To be fair, he shouldn’t have fought Wilson while being Bruce Wayne, but he guessed that as long as the mercenary thought Bruce Wayne was looking for a good fuck (and not stopping him from killing Jack Drake) his identity was safe.

Wilson didn’t hurt Wayne, but maybe Bruce took advantage of the darkness of the closet to accidentally punch his smug face. He hadn’t expected to actually break the man’s nose. And neither did Wilson if his surprised and unbelievable expression was anything to go by.

“That’s not my blood,” Bruce said before he could think better of it.

Clark blinked at him a few times.

He eyed the stab wound that clearly wasn’t just kinky foreplay.

He glanced at the bloodied shirt that looked like a piece of murder evidence.

He looked back at Bruce’s eyes with disbelief and annoyance.

“That’s worse, Bruce!”


	2. The stairs want to kill me, I swear

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know this is awful I'm sorry TmT I wanted to write something silly and here it is. Also, I can't help it, I love the boys, I'll use them whenever I can, specially baby Jay...

Clark finished wrapping the sprained wrist and reached for a popsicle with a warm smile on his face. The boy sulked and kept his glare on the floor. Clark was sure that if it were possible, the kid would be shooting lasers from his eyes.

“Here,” he handed the popsicle and patted the dark reddish curls on the boy’s head. “Don’t get into any more fights for at least a week, all right?”

The boy snatched the popsicle out of Clark’s hand and swatted at the one on his hair.

“Wasn’t a fight,” he grumbled.

Clark raised his eyebrow.

“Then how do you explain the sprained wrist?” He asked. “I can tell it was from a wrong hit.”

“Then you’re dumb,” Jason mumbled around the popsicle, glare now on Clark. “I tripped on the stairs at school and fell on my hand.”

“Right,” Clark drawled. “You know, I’ve heard better excuses than that.”

“I’d come up with something better next time,” Jason shrugged and jumped off the gurney. “Can I go now? Mom’s waiting for me.”

Clark sighed deeply and rubbed at his tired eyes.

“Yeah, go on,” he said. “Tell your mom I say hi.”

“See ya’, Clark,” Jason waved and walked out of the room.

Clark could only see him go. If he went to the GCPD, the boy would be part of the system, and Gotham’s system was the worst (and the system, anywhere, was awful, he’d been part of it, he knew what it was like). If he took the kid to his own apartment (as small as Todd’s) he’d be charged for kidnapping. But he knew what Jason was hiding, and he knew who his parents were.

His phone beeped with a new message and he glanced at it. He couldn’t help the groan that left his mouth and, for the first time since he got to Gotham, he wondered if he needed to help.

He took his jacket and wallet (which he hid in one drawer just in case Jason got any ideas) and left.

“I’m going to Wayne’s,” he informed the receptionist and continued walking.

On his way to the manor, he wondered what new injuries the billionaire would be sporting, and what weak excuse he’d use to cover it.

“I tripped on the stairs,” Bruce was saying with a clearly fake pout. “And I fell on my hand.”

Clark tried to ignore his déjà vu, but he still looked in disbelief at the other man.

“Right,” Clark repeated. “I can tell it’s from a wrong hit.”

Bruce snorted.

“The only one I want to hit is William Earle and he’s part of W.E. board,” he explained. “Lucius would kill me if I did it.”

Clark decided a sprained wrist wasn’t worthy of interrogating his mysterious patient. Bruce’s had worse, and he had a silly excuse for each of his injuries. He never told Clark the truth or a hint of it.

“No more fights for at least a week,” Clark ordered, wondering if he had any popsicles in his pockets.

“I told you, I fell,” Bruce whined. “The stairs want to kill me, I swear.”

Clark scrunched up his nose at the whine. It sounded like the Bruce commonly seen in public or interviews. The difference was the lack of an alcoholic slur and the many men and women surrounding Bruce at all times.

“Then no more stairs for a week,” Clark settled on, getting ready to go back to the clinic.

Bruce’s amused huff was almost inaudible.

“Hey, Clark?” He called before the nurse could turn and leave.

Clark faced him and waited impatiently for whatever he wanted to say. Clark wanted to vow never to come back unless Bruce told him the truth, but he knew he wouldn’t do it. He became a nurse because he knew he needed to help, he wanted to help everyone. He wanted to feel useful, to do something about all the violence and chaos around him. He wanted people to know he’d be there if they needed him.

Including Bruce Wayne.

“Don’t I get a popsicle?” Bruce asked smirking and eyeing him as if Clark was the popsicle. “I want something sweet to suck on while I heal.”

Clark was out the manor faster than Alfred could say “Sir”.


End file.
